In A Pickle
by LadyBranwyn
Summary: Horatio Hornblower and Archie Kennedy are sent to deliver a cargo of limes to the scurvy-ridden fleet, but contrary winds blow their ship off course, leaving them becalmed two miles off the coast of France.
1. Chapter 1

Note: This is the first part of a yarn for an LJ friend who is currently on the binnacle list. Thanks to annmarwalk for her helpful and patient comments!  
The HMS _Pickle_ was an historical ship. It was at the battle of Trafalgar but was so dinky that they didn't let it anywhere near the fighting. Some pictures of a replica ship can be found at the website HMSPickle-org-uk

* * *

His Majesty's sloop of war _Pickle_--a vessel known by other, far less polite names by her crew--bobbed like a seabird on the glassy water. Archie had set the hands to wetting the canvas to catch any breath of air, but so far it was to no avail. The sails hung lifelessly from the two masts. They were becalmed off the coast of Brittany, the ship swaying gently on the low swells. Two miles distant, a great headland jutted out into the sea, hiding the open water beyond, and Archie felt strangely hemmed in. So far, their luck had held, and the men aloft had seen no sign of other craft.

A sailor trotted up to him and raised a tattooed hand to his brow in salute.

Archie looked away from the threatening smudge of land. "Jenkins, did you relay my message to the captain?"

"Yes, Mr. Kennedy, I did. He said he would be up shortly, sir."

Archie thought this more than a little strange. The bell had rung for the second watch, and Horatio was never one to be late on deck. Especially not when his ship was dead in the water within sight of the coast of France.

"Very good, Jenkins. Keep those men working until every inch of canvas is wet."

"Aye, sir." The sailor saluted again but did not move. Instead, he shifted his weight uneasily from one bare foot to the other.

"Jenkins, is there something else you wish to tell me?" Archie asked, a little more sharply than was his wont.

"Sir, the captain—" The sailor chewed on his lower lip.

"What about the captain, Jenkins?"

"Well, he looks a mite peaked, sir. But please don't say as I told you, sir."

Archie nodded. "Carry on then." The men were watching so he forced himself to walk at a deliberate pace across the deck. But once he had slid down the ladder, he ran aft to the cubbyhole that served as the captain's cabin. He rapped lightly on the door; then after a moment of silence, he pressed his face against the wood and called, "Sir?"

From behind the door came the unmistakable sound of Horatio heaving up his breakfast ration of coffee and biscuit. Ah, it was as Archie had guessed. He found his friend huddled on the narrow bunk, one hand dangling over the edge. A wooden bucket sat within arm's reach.

"What are you doing here? Go above deck where you belong; I'll be up in a moment," Horatio gasped; then he rolled on his side and leaned over the bucket. When the fit had passed, he laid his head down and closed his eyes. His white face gleamed with sweat as he struggled to catch his breathe. Horatio was cursed with seasickness, and these gentle, rolling waves afflicted him far worse than the rise and fall of a raging sea. Once he had even been ill while their ship was still anchored in the harbor at Portsmouth.

"There's not a sail in sight, and Jenkins will send word if anything is amiss," Archie said as he poured clean water in the wash basin. He had to move carefully, for the small cabin was crowded with the grog barrel and a chest holding the firearms. On this small, ten-gun sloop, there was no other place to serve as a locked storeroom.

"Leave me alone, damn you. I am fine," Horatio choked out as Archie sponged the filth from his face and eased him into a clean shirt. He worked quickly, biting back any kind words of reassurance, for he could see that this physical weakness filled Horatio with shame and revulsion. The man scarcely had the strength to hold his head up.

With a crew of two junior officers and twenty men, the _Pickle_ did not rate a surgeon or even a medical orderly. However, in lieu of a qualified person, the Admiralty had supplied them with "The Compleat Practical Guide to Modern Physik" and a small chest full of glass bottles. Archie studied "The Compleat Practical Guide to Modern Physik" for a few moments, but the book was of little use unless he needed to amputate Horatio's foot or treat him for malaria. Next he rummaged through the contents of the medicine chest. _Quinine—no. Syrup of Ipecac—no, no, no. Epsom salts—no. Laudanum--_ He picked up the last bottle. Folk took this for all manner of ills, including vomiting and stomach pains.

"I am going to mix a weak dose of laudanum; it will help with the nausea, sir," Archie told him, doing his best to sound both practical and modern, but he was not surprised when his friend shook his head, unwilling to take a drug that would dull his mind and senses when France lay only two miles off starboard.

They had made no error in navigation; instead, a midnight storm had blown them off course, leaving the sloop stranded in the following calm. The two officers were in agreement that the wind would pick up by nightfall, but in the meantime, they must wait, the ship bobbing like a piece of flotsam off the jagged coast. Archie could feel how his own nerves were strung as tight as a bowline, and now Horatio had to endure this landsman's malady along with the strain of waiting.

Archie searched the medicine chest until he found a small vial. "Oil of peppermint should settle your stomach." The other man did not protest, so Archie mixed a few drops of the fragrant oil in a cup of water. Sitting propped against the bulkhead, Horatio sipped the draft cautiously. Archie sat on the grog barrel and watched him drink. Soon his face looked a trifle less pale, and he managed to go for several minutes without reaching for the bucket.

Suddenly, Horatio stared at him, eyes wide. Trained by years at sea, they both had sensed the subtle change in the movement of the ship--the wind had begun to freshen, however slightly. A moment later, Jenkins' gravely voice was calling down the companionway. Hoping against hope that his words would be heeded, Archie warned his friend, "You are ill and should stay in your bunk."

"I am needed on deck," Horatio said shortly as he hauled himself to his feet and wobbled across the cabin to get his coat and sword. After one last fit of heaves, he staggered down the passageway then crawled up the ladder. Most of the sailors were wise enough to keep their eyes on their work, though young Scully stood, brush in hand, gawking at the captain until Jenkins soundly cuffed his ear.

The sails flapped slowly, beginning to strain against the lines. The wind was from the wrong quarter and they would have to tack against it to get around the headland, but at least they would be under way again. Yet Archie's relief at this news was short-lived.

"Look windward, sirs." Jenkins pointed to where a tiny, white square of sail rose above the sea. "She's running before the wind; she'll catch us before we can work our way to the open water."

"So it seems," Horatio said absently, scowling as raised the brass spyglass to his eye.

The little sloop would soon be trapped between the bluffs and the oncoming ship. Even with the spyglass, Archie could not discern her colors, but no doubt she was a Frenchman sent to patrol the coast. A frigate, from the shape and size of the sails, her guns would blow the _Pickle_ to splinters with the very first volley. Around him, the sailors went about their work with stolid good cheer. Still they sang as they hauled at the lines, though every last man knew the danger they faced.

"If we cannot outrun this Frenchman and we cannot win a fight, we must scuttle the ship to keep her from the enemy," Horatio said. His voice was weak and he leaned unsteadily against the rail, but his eyes seemed unnaturally bright in his white face.

"Perhaps if we could bring her closer to shore, sir." Archie shook his head. "But the ship's boats are too small to hold the entire crew and we wouldn't survive a swim through those breakers." A white line of surf curled along the rocky shore. Though neither of them spoke of it, they both knew that they might well be forced to strike the colors.

"Go aloft with the spyglass and take a good look at her. And order the crew to throw the cargo overboard." The hold was packed with small barrels of limes destined for ships of the Channel Fleet. Tainted provisions had recently caused an outbreak of scurvy among the sailors.

"Aye, sir," Archie said with a wry smile, "Though I doubt that one frigate would have much use for six tons of limes."

"The French must not learn that the fleet is weakened by scurvy. We must destroy all evidence of our mission."

Archie nodded. "Besides, the _Pickle_ will make better headway if we lighten the load."

Though Horatio was still weak, the fits of nausea seemed to have passed. Whether his recovery was due to the change in weather or due to the tonic effect of adversity, Archie could not say, but Horatio called for a plate of biscuit and warily started eating.

The sailors were soon passing the cargo up from the hold and pitching it over the railing, until a trail of barrels bobbed in the sloop's wake. Archie climbed aloft and, straddling a yardarm, peered through the spyglass. When he had seen enough, he went to report to the captain.

"Two decks, forty guns, and she's flying the tricolor, sir," Archie said. "We are well within the range of her guns." The _Pickle_'s little twelve-pounders were sadly outclassed.

"They'll give us some time to declare ourselves," Horatio muttered under his breath. The sloop was sailing with no colors; from a distance, she could easily be mistaken for a coastal trading ship, especially when her gun ports were not open. However, once the Frenchman drew near, their ruse would be revealed. "Have the men load the guns, but keep the ports closed until we are in range," he ordered. "Target the mainsail. Raise the colors then have the guns fire when ready."

"Aye, sir," Archie replied. With a great deal of luck, a volley at the rigging and sails might do enough damage to cripple the frigate, allowing the _Pickle_ to slip past her to the open water, but they both knew better than to rely on such good fortune.

"Take command here, Mr. Kennedy. I must dispose of the documents." The ship's cargo manifest and the wooden box of dispatches could not fall into enemy hands. "And I will need the carpenter's help. Send him below." Then Horatio climbed down the companionway ladder, clenching the rails with white hands.

Archie handed out the cutlasses and pistols, while Jenkins saw that the guns were loaded and ready. When Horatio appeared on deck again, he had armed himself with his sword and a brace of pistols. Archie thought uneasily that his friend was hardly fit to walk, let alone defend himself, though he knew it would be pointless to try to persuade him to stay below.

"She's coming about, sir!" the lookout shouted from the bow. "And they're opening their gun ports!"

"Raise the colors!" Archie shouted. The wind was now at twenty knots, and the brilliant red and blue cloth snapped at the halyard as the men hauled it aloft. When it reached the top, it rippled and streamed before the mast. Shading his eyes against the sun, Archie watched the ensign for a brief moment, long enough that the French were sure to have seen it in the clear afternoon. Then he called down the deck, "Fire when ready!"

The gun ports clattered open; then tons of metal rolled across the deck as the starboard guns were run out. The gunners had to sight quickly, no easy feat on a rolling ship. Archie jumped in spite of himself when the cannon slammed back with a roar. Two shots fell short with a splash, but one cut a swath through the Frenchman's canvas and the fourth sheared the running rigging.

If they had just a few more seconds, time to fire a second volley, they might yet escape. Horatio and Archie worked with the crew, hurrying to reload the four twelve-pounders.

Archie looked up from the gun and shouted at young Scully, "Hand me the bucket!"; then a low roar shook the air, followed by a great, splintering crack. Thrown to the deck, he lay buried under a half ton of canvas. He crawled free and lurched to his feet. The mainmast was down, the top trailing over the side in a tangle of rigging and sailcloth. The volley had missed the foremast, and the colors were still aloft. "Clear the guns!" he ordered. "Jenkins, Watson, get over here!"

Young Scully sat on the deck, his face cradled in his hands. "Get up and lend a hand!" Archie shouted. The lad raised his head, staring dully through a veil of blood. Of the twenty crewmen, less than a dozen were left on their feet. Horatio lay facedown, stunned or dead, between two guns.

With a low rumble of wheels, the frigate rolled her loaded guns out. Archie knew that this second broadside would put a bloody end to the fight. The decision to surrender fell to him, and he alone would answer for the capture of the sloop. For an unknown officer without powerful friends in the Admiralty, this would likely mean the end of his career. He called to Jenkins. "Strike the colors, and quickly."

"Aye, sir." The sailor clambered over the wreckage toward the foremast.

Horatio lifted his head and stared at them unsteadily. "Belay that order until I give the word," he croaked.

Jenkins halted. "Aye, sir."

"Now strike the colors!" Horatio ordered; then he sank back on the planking and lay still.

As the blue and red ensign came fluttering down, Archie knelt beside Horatio. "Jenkins, get the deck cleared," he called over his shoulder. "Have Watson see to the wounded." He started unbuttoning the front of Horatio's coat. The wool was dark blue and would hide any sign of bleeding.

"My arm," Horatio whispered; his eyes were open, but he seemed to stare past Archie into the distance. A thick sliver of wood had sliced open his upper arm, the jagged end still jutting from the wound. Archie drew a knife and cut away the torn coat. Naught would be gained by waiting, so he ordered a sailor to hold the captain still. The man kept Horatio's shoulders pinned to the deck, while Archie grasped the sliver and drew it out in a stream of blood. The wounded man gave a strangled cry and tried to pull away.

"Steady, sir, it's over; we're done," Archie said as he bound up the gash with his linen neckcloth. Unable to speak, Horatio nodded slightly in reply. "Now I must go greet our guests," Archie told him with a grin that was far braver than he felt. He rose to his feet and stared across the water toward the frigate. Two of her boats were rowing toward the sloop.

"We are in a right pickle, sir," Jenkins told him with a shake of his head.

Though Archie agreed, he said only, "Assemble the ship's company, Jenkins."

When the crew was gathered in the waist of the ship, Archie ordered them to surrender themselves and then to obey any lawful requests by the French. "Give them no reason for violence, and they will do you no harm. Do you understand?"

"Aye, sir," the men replied, plainly relieved that their two young lieutenants had enough sense to end this hopeless fight. Though they now looked forward to imprisonment in France, land of unspeakable language and food, that was still far preferable to a trip to Davy Jones' locker.

The captain of the frigate did not deign to board such a little prize; instead, he had dispatched a junior officer to accept the surrender. The crew of the _Pickle_ had put up a good fight, and they bridled at this insult to their ship and their captain. A lieutenant climbed aboard, followed by two dozen heavily-armed sailors. They looked much like the crew of the _Pickle_, down to the baggy trousers and braids; though one sallow-faced Chinaman stood out from their sunburned ranks.

The officer's command of English equaled Archie's almost nonexistent knowledge of French, yet both knew the time-honored steps of this dance. Indeed, they understood each other perfectly. The French lieutenant bowed gracefully, the opening move of the set. A liberty bonnet crowned his curly hair; the floppy, red cap of the Revolution contrasted strangely with his officer's sword and the gold braid on his coat.

"I am Lieutenant Jean-Marc—"Archie could not decipher the string of words that followed until the officer said, "…_de la frégate Justice de la République Française."_ After a short speech in garbled English which could just as well have been in Greek, the red-capped lieutenant stared at Archie in expectant silence. The French and English sailors watched with equal curiosity.

Returning the bow, Archie replied, "I am honored to make your acquaintance, _Monsieur _Lieutenant. I am Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy of His Britannic Majesty's Sloop _Pickle_."

The lieutenant gave him an incredulous look. "Pickle? _Le Cornichon?_" The French sailors started laughing.

Archie ignored them and continued. He could scarcely blame them when the ship's own crew laughed at the name. "_La capitaine est malade_," Archie said, gesturing toward where Horatio lay on the deck and hoping that what he had just said actually meant what he thought it did. "So I offer our surrender at his command and on his behalf." He unfastened his sword and, with a short bow, handed it to the officer.

"_Merci_, Mr. Lieutenant Ken-ne-dee," the other man replied as he took the weapon; then he turned to Horatio. "You are the captain?"

"Lieutenant in Command Horatio Hornblower _a votre service_," Horatio whispered.

"A brave fight, Mr. Lieutenant Or…Ornbl….Sir, but with this ship….impossible." He made a final bow, the closing courtesy of the set. Then he strode away, shouting orders in French. In a few short moments, the enemy had taken possession of the sloop.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to Annmarwalk for her helpful and patient beta-reading! And thanks to Mercury Gray for her help with forms of address and naming conventions.

* * *

After the ship's two officers had been searched for weapons and papers, the _Pickle_'s former captain was hoisted across a man's back and carried below. Archie followed, descending the ladder under the watchful eye and cocked pistol of the sallow-skinned Chinese sailor. They were taken to the small cabin. Wisely, the French commander had decided to separate the captured officers from their men. The crew, no doubt, would be held under guard in the now-empty cargo hold.

Horatio was lowered none too gently to the bunk. Still white from the shock of his injury, he endured this rough treatment in silence. Through gestures and shoves, Archie was made to understand that he should sit on the end of the bunk. The Chinaman and a red-haired sailor watched over them with pistols at ready.

"The captain needs water," Archie told them. He tried to remember the word for it. "_L'eau_."

"_Taisez-vous_," the red-haired sailor ordered sharply, pointing with the gun barrel as he spoke, but the Chinaman shook his head and replied in strangely sing-song French. Then he filled a cup from the pitcher and handed it to Archie. His long, black braid swung behind him as he moved.

"_Merci_," Archie replied, wishing that he knew any Chinese words that were not indecent, for he truly was grateful for the kindness of this stranger. He slid a bolster behind Horatio's shoulders, moving slowly for fear of startling their guards, and he steadied the cup so the wounded man could drink. Horatio eagerly gulped the water, choking a little in his haste. When he had finished, Archie drew the blankets over him, for the air was cool in the unheated cabin; and then he sat on the end of the bunk and waited, though for what he did not know. He felt sick with despair and weariness, and he wanted nothing more than to bury his head in his hands.

He watched as Horatio fought against sleep, his head sinking to his breast then jerking back with a start as he woke. Soon the sound of hammering and sawing drifted down the hatch. In a few short hours, the carpenters from the _Justice_ would raise a jury rig in place of the shattered mast, and the sloop once more would be seaworthy. The Channel fleet prowled this coast, and as long as the _Pickle_ lingered in these waters, there was a slight chance that a friendly ship might find them. Once they were put ashore at Brest, any hope of escape would be gone.

Still holding a pistol in one hand, the Chinese sailor opened the wooden medicine chest. One by one, he lifted out the glass bottles, peering at the labels and sometimes sniffing the contents. Archie was surprised by this looting. On a British ship, such a breach of discipline would be most severely punished, and indeed the red-haired man kept glancing uneasily toward the open door, clearly afraid that his shipmate would be caught. Glass shattered as the Chinese sailor, cursing in his own tongue, threw a bottle to the deck. An opium smoker, Archie guessed; the man was searching for laudanum or paregoric. This vice was not uncommon among men, both yellow and white, who had sailed in the Far East. At the sound of voices in the passageway, the Chinaman quickly closed the wooden chest.

A grey-haired officer, bearing a large valise, ducked through the low doorway and hurried into the tiny cabin. He set the valise on the grog barrel, and in English too precise for any native speaker, he introduced himself as the surgeon of the _Justice_.

"Have you seen to the injuries of my men?" Horatio demanded, getting tangled in the blankets as he tried to sit up.

The surgeon nodded. "Yes, Commander. I regret to inform you that one man has suffered the loss of a hand, though none of the others was seriously wounded." He turned to Archie. "The surgeon's mate did not accompany me, so if you would not mind, Lieutenant, I have need of your assistance."

Unlike some of his brethren, the old surgeon worked with merciful speed and precision. After he had cleaned and sutured the jagged wound, he swathed the arm in dressings and bandages. "You will recover your strength in a few days," he told Horatio, "but that arm will take longer to heal. You must not exert yourself in any way for at least four weeks." Archie had often heard the surgeon on the _Indy_ giving these same impossible instructions.

"Thank you," Horatio said faintly. The wound had taken a dozen stitches to close.

The surgeon wiped the sweat from his patient's face and neck with a cloth then gave him some water and brandy. Shortly afterward, the French lieutenant, now captain of the little sloop, came into the cabin.

"_La corvette Marianne_ _de la __République Française_ soon departs for Brest, sirs," he told them. Doffing his red cap with a gracious bow, he wished Lieutenant Orunbleur a quick recovery from his wounds.

"My thanks, Commander Garneau," Horatio replied. Lying flat on his back, he did not return the bow. "When may I see my crew?"

"I will bring Mr. Ken-ne-dee to see them," the Frenchman assured him. "But first there are of the matters to discuss." Then he questioned them at length about their mission and cargo, with the surgeon stepping in to translate as needed.

In a mangled hash of English and French, Archie told them the tale upon which he and Horatio had agreed—that the _Pickle_ was a courier ship and her officers had destroyed the dispatches as soon as the frigate was sighted.

The French commander seemed satisfied with this answer. "I fear you must reside in this cabin," he told his prisoners. "Impolite but necessary." He left with a bow, followed by the old surgeon. Though the English officers were still kept under guard, the two sailors now stood outside the door.

"The poor _Pickle_!" Archie slammed his fist against the bulkhead. "Marianne? He's named her after his poxy wife!"

"Or mistress," Horatio said darkly.

The hammering of the carpenters was replaced by shouted commands and the sound of running feet. The ship began to sway gently as she got under way. Archie gazed out the stern windows. Slowly, the white wings of the frigate _Justice _dwindled and sank below the horizon. Her captain was resuming his patrol of the coast, while the lieutenant sailed the _Pickle_ to the harbor at Brest.

Archie turned away from the windows at a sudden thought. "You know, she could be pretty."

"What?" Horatio stared at him.

"Marianne. That French fellow's wife." Archie laughed at his friend's look of disgust.

"Traitor. Don't listen to him, _Pickle_," Horatio said to the wooden ceiling above him. After a moment, he added, "Old sailors say its uncommon bad luck to rename a ship."

As good as his word, Commander Garneau allowed Archie to visit the crew of the _Pickle_.

"I'm right glad to see you, sir," Jenkins told him with a black look at the French officer. "We feared that you and the captain had come to grief."

"I thank you for your concern, but the captain is doing well and, as you can see, I am unharmed. Are the French treating you decently?"

"Aye, sir. We're packed in like herrings in a barrel and the rations are horrible stuff, but at least they trouble themselves to feed us." He gave Archie the tally of wounded—fully half of the men were injured, though only one was gravely hurt. Archie spoke with each of them, and he saw that all was as well as could be expected. Though the quarters were close and the air stifling, the men seemed in good spirits, even those who were wounded. Archie thought that Jenkins deserved a great deal of credit.

When he returned to the cabin, Horatio questioned him closely about the condition of the crew. He wanted to know which of them had been hurt and how severely. They both knew how lucky they were that the _Justice_'s broadside had not done more damage.

The bell had rung to end the afternoon watch, and the sunlight was slanting through the stern windows. The red-haired sailor brought their evening meal on a battered tin plate. Archie stared with suspicion at the strange mess.

"Is good, very good, _Monsieur_," the sailor told him, seeing his doubtful look.

Archie recognized the potatoes and the small onions, but what was that abominable meat? It looked like offal discarded from the shambles. And the broth was swimming with knobby mollusks that looked like barnacles. These French ate things unfit for human consumption. Yet wounded men needed meat to recover their strength, or so the surgeon on the _Indy_ always said; so with a glance at Horatio, Archie took up the fork. At least he could determine which parts were edible. He prized open a white shell and forced himself to eat.

The sharpness of onions and spices mixed with the salty savor of the shellfish. The taste was unbelievably delicious, especially after weeks of brined beef. He tried a piece of the offal. The meat was as soft as butter and just as rich. Archie had no idea what it was. _Better not to know_, he told himself as he helped the wounded man to eat. When they were finished, only a pile of empty shells remained. As the red-haired sailor took away the plate, he made a short speech to his prisoners. He spoke very quickly, and Archie could understand but a few words.

"What was that about, sir?" he asked after the Frenchman had left.

"He says that our government kidnaps innocent sailors, and we feed our crews rations that the French would not throw to the dogs. That is why the British Navy will be defeated." Horatio spoke lightly, but after a pause, he said, "It is true that their navy does not resort to conscription."

Archie was unsure what to say in reply. The need for the press gang was regrettable, yet they both knew that the Admiralty had many ships to crew.

The wounded man sat propped up with bolsters, while Archie stood by the stern windows, watching the sea turn from blue to grey then to black. The English officers talked quietly, choosing their words with care for the enemy stood within earshot. The red-haired sailor lit the small oil lamp, the light and shadow shifting with the movement of the sloop. The sails must have been furled for the night, for the _Pickle_ bobbed on the water like a sleeping seabird with its wings tucked in. Archie could sense the smallest change in her balance, a shift so slight that only those who were well acquainted with her quirky ways would notice. She moved a bit sluggishly, as if additional weight had been added to her ballast. Or she was taking on water. He did not doubt that Horatio too had felt it.

Some time after the bell had struck for the first watch, two sailors entered the cabin and hauled away the barrel of grog.

Archie grinned. "I wondered how long it would take them to discover the rum, though they may find such honest drink too strong for their liking." The French were said to provision their ships with weaker spirits like brandy and wine.

Horatio didn't seem to hear him. "Did you see any other Chinese among the boarding party?" he asked sharply.

"There were no others that I saw," Archie replied. This was an odd question from Horatio. He treated all crewmen with the same strict fairness, regardless of color or faith, judging them by their deeds, not their origins. Yet Archie knew better than to ask the reason for such a question.

Horatio fell silent, and soon afterward, he drifted to sleep, his white face turned to one side. Despite the hardships of the day, Archie felt strangely wakeful, and he was certain he would never be able to sleep. He wrapped himself in a cloak and lay down on the cluttered floor of the cabin. With any luck, no one would walk in the door and step on him.

He woke with a start and rolled to his feet. Something had struck the hull of the sloop. He lunged toward the door but was caught short by the sight of their guards. From the bunk, Horatio stared at him, wide awake. The soft light of dawn filled the cabin.

They heard the sound again, a dull thud followed by a soft splash. Archie leaned out the window, craning his neck so he could see the sloop's stern at the waterline. A small cask was banging against the hull, and the waters around the _Pickle_ were teeming with bobbing barrels. _Not the damned limes_, Archie thought, but he said aloud, "Barrels, sir. Looks like a ship dropped her cargo."

The wild currents of the Breton coast had carried the limes back to the _Pickle_. Archie watched from the stern windows as the enemy sailors lowered the two small boats and began herding the barrels toward the sloop. Archie wondered how soon Commander Garneau would realize that every last one of the hundred casks was packed to the brim with limes. He also wondered how soon the Frenchman would notice that his ship was riding lower in the water.

A sailor brought hot coffee and strawberry preserves and delicious bread that was only slightly stale. Horatio felt much stronger and needed little help with the meal, managing well enough without his left arm. After they finished eating, he insisted on staggering across the cabin to look from the stern windows, and with Archie's assistance, he struggled into his tattered lieutenant's coat. He already seemed impatient with his illness and confinement, and Archie took this as a very good sign.

Two hours later, the French commander strode into the cabin. This time he dispensed with any courtesies. He reached into his coat pocket and drew forth a lime. He handed it to Archie. "Your cargo?"

"Many British ships sail off the coast of France," Horatio said evenly.

The officer ignored the pointed remark. "_Les citrons_ are for the fleet of the Channel, _je suppose_. The authorities at Brest will interest themselves in it. But there is another matter to discuss. The ship_…" _He paused, searching for the right words. "She fills with water."

_To be continued….._

Notes:

The liberty cap was adopted by supporters of the French revolution (it was also worn in the United States in the late 18th century). It was inspired by the cap worn by Roman slaves who had won their freedom. It looks like a Smurf hat. (Papa Smurf's hat to be precise.) I probably shouldn't have that French lieutenant wearing a liberty cap during the period of this story (around 1800, when the revolution is already over), but I liked the image so I left that bit in.

Hornblower and Archie are mistaken about Marianne—she isn't the French officer's wife or mistress or even a woman. Marianne was the personification of the French Republic and was frequently depicted in artwork.

I need to take a few weeks off from writing to work on some other projects. There should be an update in early October, at the latest. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Horatio nodded. "That is hardly surprising, Commander. Your broadside shook the _Pickle_ to the keel. The strain must have opened a seam under the waterline."

"I think not, Lieutenant Orunbleur," the French commander said with a tight smile. "The damage was not from the guns of _La Justice_. A hole has been drilled in the side of the ship. So now I must ask you and Lieutenant Ken-ne-dee what other damages you have made?"

Archie did his best to feign a look of indignant surprise at this accusation. He remembered how, just before they were boarded, Horatio had gone below deck with the ship's carpenter in tow.

"You overhauled us quickly; I had time only to see to our defense," Horatio replied coolly.

"Mr. Ken-ne-dee, what do you have to say?"

"I was likewise occupied during the battle, sir," Archie said. He suddenly realized that he was still holding the lime, so he hurriedly shoved it into his coat pocket.

Addressing Horatio, the French officer continued in his native language. He said something about the prison of the Bastille and how he had been imprisoned, before the Revolution. And the police had asked him questions? Archie wasn't certain. Some of the words were very similar to Spanish, but he still had trouble following much of Garneau's rapid speech. His limited knowledge of French was mainly concerned with curses and the names of naval vessels. _That will change after I've been imprisoned in France for a few months,_ Archie told himself ruefully, recalling his forced schooling in Spanish.

Commander Garneau pushed back the sleeve of his frock coat and shirt and held out his left forearm. The skin was scored by jagged, white scars. The marks had not been made by the random destruction of shot or sword, but by slow and studied mistreatment. In English, he said to Horatio, "Just like so. That is how it is done."

The other man's face betrayed no emotion, but the muscles of his jaw were rigidly set. "That would be against the laws of war, sir, to so harm a prisoner."

"The laws of war do not protect those who engage in such subterfuge." Turning to Archie, the Frenchman said, "If other damage has been made to this ship, it is better that you tell me now. Do not doubt that I will use whatever means are _necessaire_ to deliver this ship to Brest." After speaking with their guards, he departed.

Soon the familiar grinding of the capstan was mingled with the strange cries of the French sailors as slowly, and with much shouting, they got the little sloop under way. On deck, the bilge pumps began to thud and creak. Garneau must have set the prisoners to work, for they could hear two sailors talking in English.

"Well, I 'spose this is better than being shut below," one of them remarked cheerfully. "Never thought I'd say that." Manning the pumps was dull and back-breaking work, and few tasks on board ship were more hated by sailors.

"Look at those lines on the mizzen," the other replied. "They've run them all wrong. Damn Frogs, they don't know a boom from a bowline."

"_Taisse-toi!_" a third voice called sharply, and the English sailors fell silent save for muttered curses. The sea and sky had turned grey, and raindrops began to click softly on the decks.

Archie searched in the wooden medicine chest until he found a roll of linen. The old surgeon from the _Justice_ had told him to examine and dress the wound each day. Taking care not to move the injured arm any more than was needed, he helped Horatio out of his service coat and shirt.

"The prize crew must be small," his friend murmured as Archie unfastened the bandages. "Too few to man the pumps while they sail her. A dozen men at most."

"If you could lift your arm slightly, sir," Archie said aloud. He wondered what other damage Horatio had inflicted on the sloop, but he dared not ask. The red-haired sailor watched them with bored interest from where he stood beside the door. The Chinaman must have been needed aloft while they set the sails, for when the morning watch was changed, he had been replaced by one of his shipmates. In any navy, there was always a dearth of sailors who were able and willing to go aloft.

Archie did his best to examine the wound, though he knew far more about putting holes in men than he knew about sewing them back together. "It seems to be healing cleanly, sir," he reported. The crooked line of stitches held fast, and he did not feel any swelling or warmth in the surrounding flesh.

Scowling at the injury, Horatio said, "Bandage it tightly, so at least I can use the arm to eat." He looked up at Archie, his eyes gleaming though his face was shadowed with weariness. "Do you understand what I mean, Mr. Kennedy?"

"Aye aye, sir," Archie replied. He understood that they would soon make a move against the enemy, though he could not begin to guess the captain's plan. They were unarmed and outnumbered by at least six to one, and his friend was in no condition to fight. Filled with misgivings, Archie strapped the arm tightly to keep the gash from pulling apart, and over the bandages, he wrapped a heavy wool muffler to protect the wound from blows. "Can you still move the arm, sir?"

"Yes, it will do, thank you."

They both jumped to their feet at a sudden, splintery, crack. The sound came from somewhere nearby, in the stern of the little sloop. Their two guards broke into an incomprehensible torrent of French and, pistols at ready, rushed into the cabin.

"_Merde!_" a man shouted from the deck. "_Merde, merde, merde!_"

The red-haired sailor held a pistol trained on Archie, while the second guard peered out the stern windows. He said a few, short words and shook his head with an unhappy look, and then the two French sailors again took up their post outside the door.

Archie looked out the window and saw at once the cause of their dismay. The oak rudder, weighing at least half a ton, was dangling uselessly from the chains. "It looks like the rudder post gave way, sir." He had to fight a wild urge to laugh.

"The tiller must have been damaged during the engagement," Horatio replied absently. Archie guessed that the ship's carpenter had sawn partway through the rudder post, leaving the wood badly weakened. He wondered how long it would be before Commander Garneau arrived to question them about this mishap. No doubt suspicion would fall on the two English officers.

The ship's bell rang for the afternoon watch, and the red-haired sailor handed Archie two plates of boiled beef. "Is your English food, _monsieur._" Salty and bland, this was the standard fare on British warships from the waters of the Baltic to the strait of Gibraltar.

"The French must have used up their store of barnacles, so it's back to boiled beef," Archie remarked as he cut the meat into small pieces for the wounded man. Then he took up his own plate and began to eat. After the first bite, he stopped and stared in surprise at the boiled beef. "Damn, this tastes good," he said. The French had added root vegetables to the stew, and the sweetness of carrots and parsnips was mingled with a smoky whiff of black pepper and the faint evergreen scent of bay leaves.

"Provisioning is easy if you spend most of your time blockaded in port," Hornblower told him.

Archie laughed, though the truth was that they never ate this well on shipboard, not even when they were in the harbor at Portsmouth.

An officer brought the noon ration of spirits for their two guards. Though he wore the same blue frock coat with the scarlet facings and gold braid, he was younger than the French lieutenant and was scarcely more than a lad. As he left, he gave the two prisoners a curious glance. Archie thought that he and Horatio must seem quite disappointing compared to the newspaper accounts of blood-thirsty, piratical English officers.

The French had run out of brandy, so a tot of the _Pickle's_ strong rum had been issued in place of the usual spirits. The red-haired sailor tasted the drink warily, and then with a pained look on his face, he quickly swallowed the rest. Grumbling "_C'est terrible,_" the other guard drained his tin cup.

"They don't seem happy, sir. I wonder what Styles and Matthews would say if we tried to give them brandy instead of their beloved rum," Archie said with a grin. These men were members of Horatio's watch on the _Indefatigable_.

"Nothing that could be repeated in polite society," Horatio replied.

At a dull thud from the doorway, Archie turned and stared at their guards.

The red-haired sailor had fallen to his knees. "_J'ai le vertige. Cet rhum Anglais…_" he murmured as he keeled over on the deck. The other guard swayed and collapsed on top of him.

_To be continued...._

Top of Form

Bottom of Form


	4. Chapter 4

Note: This fic is for Wackdagz_jewel, pirate queen and terror of the seas. Many thanks to Annmarwalk for her extremely helpful suggestions. Thanks also to my resident fight scene consultant, Lord Branwyn, for his assistance. My knowledge of French is very limited, so if I made errors, I hope that at least they are funny ones.

* * *

Before Archie could stop him, Horatio hurried to the door and, dropping to one knee, knelt beside the fallen men.

"Stay clear of them!" Archie cried sharply, and he seized the captain by the coat and tried to haul him back into the cabin.

"What are you doing?" Horatio snapped as he struggled to pull away.

Archie kept his voice level, but he did not loosen his hold on the captain's coat. "They may be ill. They could even have the typhus, sir. You should stay back, while I take a look at them."

There were many perils on board a sailing vessel, but there was only one thing that would strike down a sailor so quickly and with so little warning—typhus, the dreaded "ship fever." Flourishing in the foul air below deck, it was the scourge of all navies. There was no known cure, and the only treatment was blood-letting and the use of strong purgatives. Despite the surgeons' best efforts, this illness often proved fatal, especially when the victim was already weakened by injury.

Horatio stopped struggling and stared at him. "You think they have typhus? Then you would put yourself at risk in my place." He quickly looked away and said, "Your concern for my welfare is appreciated, Mr. Kennedy, but there is no need for such a precaution. They're not fevered. They are drugged. I doctored the rum with laudanum."

Now it was Archie's turn to stare. He felt torn between disbelief and laughter. "So they're pickled?"

Horatio gave him a quick grin. "These Frogs can't stomach honest drink. But I don't know how long the dose will last. We had best get these two out of sight."

They dragged their two guards into the small cabin. Eyes half-closed, the red-haired sailor smiled gently as they hauled him along the deck, while the second guard mumbled and stirred in his sleep. The hapless men were quickly disarmed and stripped to their drawers, then the two English officers hurriedly dressed in their baggy trousers and brass-buttoned jackets. From a distance, at least, they would pass for members of the prize crew. Outside the stern windows, rain still pocked the grey surface of the ocean, and the dark and dreary weather would aid in their disguise.

The red-haired sailor carried a belaying pin, a three-foot long club of solid oak. Archie hefted it in his left hand. "Now we will look like a pair of right mutineers," he muttered with a grin.

The sailors' two pistols he handed to Horatio who, with an injured right arm, would be better able to shoot than fight with a sword. Archie took the heavier of the two cutlasses for himself; then he helped the captain with the sword belt for the other, draping the wide strap over his right shoulder and under his left arm. He wondered if either of them would survive the coming engagement. The odds were against it, but after eight years in His Majesty's navy, he knew better than to dwell on such thoughts.

With a nod toward their guards, Archie murmured, "What about them, sir? What about when they wake up?" They both were well aware that the quickest and surest course would be to dispatch these two with a knife, and certainly there were captains who would give the order without a qualm.

Horatio glanced about the cabin with an impatient scowl. "Lash them to the gun." The tiny cabin's furniture included the _Pickle's _stern chaser, a long-barreled nine. Archie dragged the sailors across the deck and bound their wrists fast to the carriage, using the lines of the gun tackle.

"I doubt that even French officers would drink while their ship was drifting without a rudder," Horatio said quietly. "We'll still have to deal with them. And watch for that Chinaman. No doubt he's an opium smoker--you saw how he searched the medicine chest." The laudanum would have little effect on a man who was accustomed to taking large doses of opium.

They needed to move quickly to win back the sloop, before Commander Garneau could discover their escape. And if they did not succeed—Archie had a sudden vision of the French lieutenant ordering his men to feed their troublesome prisoners to the fish. A captain was expected to try to scuttle his ship rather than see her fall into enemy hands, but attempting to poison the prize crew was another matter entirely.

They hurried along the passage, past the aft companionway and toward the forward cargo hold where the _Pickle_'s crew had been confined. They advanced unopposed until they reached midship, where the way was blocked by a wall of planks. The broadside had damaged the deck above, and the French had tried to brace the sagging timbers.

"We'll have to go on deck to reach the forward hold," Horatio whispered.

They hurried back to the aft companionway. A sudden gust of wind blew a sheet of rain down the open hatch. Archie set a foot on the steep ladder then jumped back as a voice called down, "_Hey, etes-vous la_?" A shadow blocked the light as a man leaned over the hatchway.

Eyebrows raised, Archie held up the belaying pin. Horatio gave a slight nod. They could ill afford to use one of the pistols. They would have only two shots, and the sound would raise the alarm. "_Hey, les gars!_" the voice called again. After a long moment, a silver-buckled shoe appeared on the uppermost rung.

The French junior officer scrambled down the ladder. No doubt Commander Garneau had sent him to assess the situation below deck. When he reached the foot of the ladder, he glanced at the Englishmen in surprise then stumbled backward, reaching for a pistol. Before he could fire the shot, Archie swung the belaying pin and struck the side of his head. He dropped to the deck and lay motionless, water running from his hair and clothing. Archie shoved him over on his back. Though the young Frenchman was still breathing, his eyes were closed and he did not stir as Archie searched him and took a pistol—still miraculously dry--and a dagger from under his coat.

Through the open hatch, they could hear the French lieutenant giving orders. At least two of the enemy were waiting for them on the upper deck. "Let me go first, sir," Archie whispered, "You won't be able to hold a pistol while climbing one-handed." And before the captain could argue, he started up the ladder.

As Archie cleared the top and leaped onto the deck, Commander Garneau swung about and snapped, "Qu'est-ce que—" then, spotting the raised gun barrel, he darted behind the aft mast.

Archie fired at his retreating back, cursing as the shot went wide. He ducked into the shelter of the raised side of the companionway. The two prisoners who were manning the bilge pump threw themselves to the deck.

"Get over here!" Archie shouted at them.

"We can't, sir! The bloody Frogs chained our feet!"

Horatio stumbled from the ladder and crouched beside him. "Go forward. I'll hold him here." His face was white, and his hands shook as he cocked one of the pistols. Raising his head, he called loudly, "Show your face, Commander, and I will blow it off. _Comprenez-vous_?"

Archie drew the cutlass and ran toward the bow of the sloop. The captain did not need to tell him to hurry. The longer that they were exposed to the downpour, the more likely it was that those guns would misfire, and the Frenchman would be well aware of this fact.

Skirting the stacked barrels of limes, he nearly tripped on a sailor lying huddled on the deck, oblivious to the rain. The two prisoners at the bilge pump were frantically trying to unfasten the chains from their ankles. Behind him, someone shouted, but he dared not stop to look.

He had almost reached the forward companionway when the slight figure of the Chinese sailor came running from the bow. His long, black braid streamed behind him. As the captain had guessed, he seemed untouched by the effects of the laudanum.

"Surrenderez!" Archie screamed, not knowing the proper word. The Chinaman had drawn no weapons, and though he was in a desperate hurry, Archie had no wish to kill an unarmed man.

Halting just out of the reach of the cutlass, the sailor pulled off a shoe and brandished it at his opponent. "Waaaaaaah!" he crowed like a chicken, hopping on one foot. The long, black braid swung wildly back and forth.

_The crazy bastard is out of his mind_, Archie thought. He raised the sword, intending to strike with the flat, but instead he glanced up in surprise as the shoe went flying over his head.

"Waaaaah!" the sallow-faced Chinaman screeched, his dark head disappearing as he suddenly dropped to the deck. Archie looked down and caught a glimpse of the sailor crouched with one leg tucked under him while the other leg was stretched full length. _What on earth is he doing?_ Archie thought, and then something heavy struck against his ankles and his legs went out from under him. The cutlass was knocked from his hand as he landed on his back. Half-stunned, he rolled over, blindly reaching for the hilt. The Chinese sailor snatched up the cutlass and, before he could raise an arm to guard his face, hit him in the head with the pommel. Archie dropped to the planking, too dazed to move. The sailor quickly bound his hands with a neckerchief and took away the stolen dagger.

Feeling strangely distant, Archie lay on his side and watched as Horatio drew the cutlass. The pistols must have misfired, or perhaps both shots had gone astray. The French lieutenant had taken up a long boat hook, and now he rushed forward and swung at Horatio. Cutlass in his left hand, the captain fended off the attack, but the movements were heavy and slow, like the dancing of a chained bear. Still weak from the loss of blood, he would soon be worn down. He clumsily parried the blows, until he lost his footing and slipped. As he tried to crawl to his hands and knees, the French lieutenant shouted at him and, when he would not surrender, struck him with the pole until he lay still.

The Chinese sailor hauled Archie to his feet and dragged him stumbling to the quarterdeck. His head still ached, but he felt less dizzy. At an order from the French officer, the Chinaman shoved him to the deck beside Horatio. The captain's arms had been tied behind his back, and his face was streaked with blood and rain.

"Are you badly hurt?" Horatio whispered.

"No, sir," Archie whispered back and started to ask "And you?" but was silenced by a sharp kick in the ribs.

_To be continued…._


End file.
